


Which Had No Stone

by sam_ptarmigan



Series: Which Had No Stone [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Brain Injury, M/M, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-12
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 02:38:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/681767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_ptarmigan/pseuds/sam_ptarmigan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: <em>Someone in the company used to be Bifur's one. Until the axe happened, and Bifur forgot. Or did he?</em></p><p>Bifur is drawn out by a half-remembered song and joins Dwalin for a late night smoke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Which Had No Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the LJ hobbit-kink meme.

He knows there's a dark place in his head where thoughts should be.

His words don't come out right. Somewhere between his throat and his tongue, it all goes wrong, and what he speaks is not what he means. Even in Khuzdul, he knows he sometimes babbles nonsense. _Apple_ , he says, when he means to say _dinner_. _Silver_ , he says, when he tries to say _apple_.

The fits come less often than they once did, but they still creep up on him when he's weary. They're small, lasting only a few seconds and not even knocking him off his feet. There is only the prelude of strange colours and the smell of copper. Blackness, for a moment. Then, when it's over, a sharp pain in his head and the feeling as though he's been beaten all over with a cudgel.

More worrying is the way that minutes or hours will sometimes slip painlessly from him. He might sit at his worktable, beginning a toy, and the next thing he knows, it is finished in his hand, complete with paint he does not remember rising to retrieve. Yesterday, as they rode east, he closed his eyes against the morning glare for only an instant and opened them to find the sun overhead. It's a comfort, at least, to know that he must comport himself normally in those missing moments. His cousins have never spoken of it, and he cannot make the words come out to tell them.

Yet it isn't the darkness that drives him almost to madness, but the half-lit places at the edges of it. Near-remembered things. An itch at the tip of his tongue.

Tonight, it's a song.

Bifur sits up slowly in his bedroll, his head cocked. There it is, in the distance. A faint humming and a pinprick of flame. His heartbeat quickens, and his mouth runs dry. He looks around the camp, his eyes first finding his cousins and then taking count of the others. Most are sleeping. Fili and Kili are on watch, tending the fire. Oin is rearranging his pack.

The count comes up two short.

He looks out into the darkness again, to where the sound is coming from. His memories of the time when he was small are untouched, and he remembers with clarity all the warning-stories his mother told of singing elves who lured away unwary dwarflings into the deep, dark woods with merry ways that soon turned to tears.

But this is no elf-song. He knows this song, or he knew it once, and the voices are fine and low. He rises to his feet, and though Fili and Kili give him a questioning look as one, neither calls after him.

He moves quietly over soft grass. His cloak and boots have been left behind, and he doesn't wholly notice until the warmth of the fire is long faded and his socks are damp with night dew. Never mind.

The humming grows louder, and the little red light resolves itself into the glowing embers of a pipe.

Balin and Dwalin are sitting together, looking back upon the road they've travelled. They pass the pipe between them, their song scarcely interrupted by the occasional puff of smoke. It's Balin humming the melody, light and lilting, and Dwalin drones the accompaniment, deep and smooth.

The sound of it nearly buzzes against Bifur's skin, and that awful gnawing feeling deepens. He knows this song, and he's been here before. Except that he hasn't. None of them have.

His grunt of annoyance alerts the brothers to his presence. They turn quickly, hands on weapons, but stand down when they see it's him.

Dwalin's eyes stay wary, but Balin offers a smile. He always looks a little sad when he smiles at Bifur, but his manner doesn't have the stink of pity on it. He lost someone, Bifur's decided. He lost someone he knew in the attack, and when he looks at Bifur, he thinks of it—that's all.

"Are we keeping the camp awake?" Balin inquires.

Bifur shakes his head, wishing he hadn't interrupted. The name of the song had nearly formed. There are words to it, something about a stone. Summer fruit. Or maybe he's only remembering the last time he heard it, on some long-lost summer's day. Maybe the droning he remembers was bees. He shakes his head again, harder this time, as if he might knock something loose.

"They sleep," he mutters in Khuzdul and makes the sign for _all is well_.

"Come sit down, then," Balin says. "Give over, brother. Make room."

This, although they're in the middle of the countryside with room enough to sit for miles. He shuffles over and sits down heavily beside Dwalin, who gives him a brief glance and a quiet grunt in greeting.

He doesn't mind it, travelling with Dwalin. It's clear enough to him that they fell out with each other somewhere in the gulf that spans from three years before his head was cleaved to six months after. He remembers the kinship between them when they first met, and he knows the uncomfortable silence of now, and in between he's certain they spoke of something important that flits around in his memory like a flickering, half-dead firefly.

But Dwalin is a fine warrior. Bofur and Bombur are as safe as they can be with him around. Dwalin can quaff an ale like nobody's business, and he can brawl like a badger, and his big hands are clumsy with fine work in a way that once made Bifur laugh. There is worse company to have.

"Where are your manners?" Balin chides his brother. "Pass him the pipe. It's cold out here."

Dwalin scowls. "Roll yourself back to your bed," he says crossly, but he hands the pipe to Bifur nonetheless.

Balin chuckles and rises to his feet.

"I might at that," he says, and he smacks Dwalin sharply across the back of the head. "Good night, brother. Good night, Bifur."

Bifur mutters his good nights before drawing in a mouthful of smoke. Then he and Dwalin are left alone.

The smoke trickles out from between his lips as he returns the pipe. Dwalin's hand stings where it touches him—very cold or very hot, he can't tell which.

Bifur clears his throat rustily and hums a little of the song. He doesn't make it far before he falls silent, and when the sound dies away, he finds Dwalin peering at him sharply.

"Remember that, do you?" There is a pressing tone to Dwalin's voice that raises Bifur's hackles.

He shakes his head and waves his hand dismissively. No, he doesn't remember. He only remembers remembering, and that's not the same thing at all.

They stay silent for a time, passing the pipe back and forth and looking out at the river and the moon. It suits Bifur well enough. There is a difference between being quiet and being ignored. Neither of them have ever been talkative, and the tension between them is bearable.

Eventually, Dwalin sighs. "Do you think things will be better in Erebor?" he asks, his gaze fixed upon a wisp of smoke curling out into the night air.

The question takes him by surprise. He isn't quite certain what Dwalin means, but he considers it seriously nonetheless. He himself doesn't plan to be alive to see the Lonely Mountain. He has not come along to reclaim a lost home or to win a share of treasure. He has come to kill as many orcs as he can, and to die a more dignified death than he would under his cousins' care, made weak and stupid on charity and pissing himself when the fits turn bad again.

Yet he nods. For he truly does wish for things to be better in Erebor, for the sake of his cousins, and for their king, and for all their people.

The answer seems to please Dwalin. His broad shoulders ease a little, and a wistful smile tugs at his lips.

It's good to see. Bifur's gaze lingers upon the lines at the corners of Dwalin's eyes, and the faint curve of his mouth, and the new threads of silver in his beard. Dwalin has always been good to look upon. He remembers that much, at least. His lips part as something wakes again in those half-lit borderlands, and he tries to gather the words to his tongue.

"Your socks must be soaked through," Dwalin says, suddenly scowling and breaking his concentration. "Where are your boots?"

Bifur blinks. His unformed thought dissipates, and he looks down at his feet. He makes a rude gesture in Dwalin's direction. In fairness, his socks have been wet for two days, even when he had his boots on.

Dwalin clamps the pipe between his teeth and grumbles something inaudible. His motions are meaningless to Bifur at first. Then he is quite clearly taking off his cloak and brusquely swinging it around Bifur's shoulders.

The weight of it drives a rough, barking laugh from Bifur's throat. He makes another rude gesture, but not as expansively. The cloak is warm, after all, and it smells nice, and it's as good a sign as any of a mending grudge. He plucks the pipe from Dwalin's mouth and steals another puff. Then he hums a little of the song again, thinking suddenly of summer-warm grass and lovers lying back on a spread-out cloak. Maybe that's what the words are about.

Dwalin picks up the tune where he falters this time and then hums each section again, letting Bifur join in on the echo. Their voices are nearly twinned, pitched alike and both full of gravel. He knew that once, didn't he? Something stirs in his chest, distracting him from the ache in his head as the song circles back around to the beginning.

Yes, he thinks as the notes slide into place and rewrite themselves upon his memory. It was definitely something about lovers.


End file.
